


Give Me Your Darkness

by Batsymomma11



Series: Blark Files [8]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Freezing Cold Blizzard, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, Kent farm, Long-Term Relationship(s), M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Old Grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 18:19:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17146715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Christmas is a time of celebration and joy, sparkling lights and baked goods. Especially at the Kent farm. Bruce struggles with the grief that the holidays bring and with his own demons. Luckily, Clark is specialized in drawing out Bruce's darkness and helping him see the light.





	Give Me Your Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas! Stay safe and warm and hug your families. 
> 
> I do not own DC or its characters. I do own this story. Thanks for reading and enjoy!

                The snow groaned under the work boots Clark had insisted he wear, and he stuffed both hands into his pockets to warm them. Wind slapped his face and neck, bit down his spine and reminded him that this was Kansas. A place that was as open and flat as it was often desolate beneath the gloss of crystalline flakes and barren accolades. Here, there were no sirens to mark the rush of holidays, no banshee screams amidst red-bitten lights and smog filled skies. No crime. No overpowering crush of life, breathing and flowing too fast and too loud and too much.

                Gotham had nothing on a winter in Kansas.

                Sound was smothered by thick snowdrifts and heavy cloud cover. It was so stiflingly quiet, he could be the last man on earth and there would no one to refute it for miles. When Bruce found the leery fence, marking the Kent property line, slumped over and half buried, he stopped and realized he heard—nothing. Nothing at all.

                It was so quiet, despite the wind clawing as it his exposed cheeks and neck, that Bruce could hear the thrum of blood in his neck and chest. He could hear himself breathing when his eyes slipped closed and he pictured the farm.

                All that warmth and light and love.

                It had been—too much. Overwhelming. And though he’d suspected as much, it was different then he’d thought. More affecting and raw.

                Leaning precariously into the fencing, Bruce let himself see Martha and Jonathan Kent snuggled into their plaid loveseat, with cups of steaming cocoa and knowing grins. He could see the way they’d watched he and Clark. Something between happiness, pride, and love. A mixture of all the feelings Bruce might have wanted his own parents to feel once he’d found the love and shared it with them. From the moment they’d arrived at the farm, there had been lights, cookies, and hugs. Too much touching and lots of questions.

                Soft looks interspersed with frightened little spasms in his chest that made him ache and question and wonder what the hell he was doing all the way out here. What the hell Clark was doing bringing him home for Christmas and sharing it with him when Bruce was nothing like this place. Bruce wasn’t soft like the Kents, in any plane of existence. He was hard and brutal. Cold by sheer instinct to survive. He was—broken. Darkness personified, as Clark shone so brightly it oftentimes hurt to look at him. To get too close to that burning light.

                It was because of the wind and Bruce’s distracted thoughts. Because he’d slipped too deep in his mind, that he’d not heard when Clark appeared out of the gusting snow to stand at his side.

                He jerked when Clark put a hand on his shoulder.

                “It’s alright. It’s just me.”

                Bruce hunched his shoulders, “You just—surprised me.”

                “You’ve been out here a long time.”

                “Yes.”

                Clark didn’t dare lean into the fencing too. It wouldn’t support both their weight. But he shifted into Bruce, using his body to block the blustering grumble of the wind from Bruce’s nape and back, wrapping thick arms around Bruce’s middle. Bruce’s eyes closed, his body rebelling against the inner turmoil in favor of leaning into Clark rather than away. Clark felt good at his back. A solid warmth that permeated even the most stubborn of chills.   

                “Was this too soon? Coming here?”

                “No,” Bruce willed his voice to remain steady. “No. It’s been nice.”

                “You’ve been very quiet Bruce.”

                “I’m not always the best conversationalist.”

                Clark hummed, nuzzled into Bruce’s neck and pressed warm lips there. Trailed them down the side of Bruce’s neck where they stopped and then just _breathed_ Bruce in. Like Clark needed to inhale Bruce’s essence for his survival. It made everything fuzzy around them. The desolation didn’t seem so stark in his thoughts. The darkness, not quite so thick when Clark stood blazing against it.

                “I love you. You know that, right?”

                Bruce swallowed, let his eyes open to slits and saw only the white. Everything so, so white. Snow flakes caught on his eyelashes, blurred his vision. Peppered his face with freezing drops of water. “Yes. I know it.”

                “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

                “I know.”

                “It’s OK,” Clark murmured, changing his grip, rotating Bruce so Bruce could face Clark’s chest. So Bruce could lean heavily into Clark and just—take. Soak up the warmth, banish the nightmares and sorrows. Forcibly remove the ugliness that always clung and whispered to him. He’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t trembling with the emotions clawing up his throat. He’d be lying if he tried to deny how badly he wanted to curl into the snow and just shed a few grief laden tears. “It’s OK, B. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

                Bruce gripped Clark’s Carhart with both hands, bringing his cheek to Clark’s, pressing in tightly. Clark smelled like Martha’s cookies and laundry detergent. “I’m sorry.”

                “No. Don’t be. Christmas isn’t always happy for everyone. And this—being here at the farm—I understand Bruce. It was a lot.”

                “I—” Bruce felt his throat close up, his stomach cramp, “I care about them. I like it here.”

                “But it makes you miss your parents.”

                Bruce nodded, not trusting his voice, not able to say what exactly it did to him to slip into these dark wet places in his mind. The sense of isolation and weariness was absolute. It was overpowering and soul-wrenching. Bruce had suspected that spending Christmas with the Kents might hurt. He’d underestimated just how badly.

                “You’re freezing.”

                Bruce snuggled in closer, unwilling to lose his personal heater yet, “I have you.”

                “Let’s go home. Everyone is in bed already. You won’t have to see them.”

                It wasn’t fair that Clark had to worry about trudging into ankle-deep snow to bring his boyfriend back home. It wasn’t fair that Clark needed to pet Bruce’s withered heart and try to make sense of it. But Bruce had never been more grateful.

                They walked instead of flying. It was grounding for Bruce to hold Clark’s hand and walk back to the farm. By the time they strode to the back door off the kitchen, Bruce was shivering from the cold and his fingers and toes were numb, but he felt less like he was drowning. He felt less like he needed to tuck tail and scream just to let some of the pressure out of his chest.

                Clark wordlessly lead them up to his bedroom.

                What once was a twin bed and glow in the dark stars, had been upgraded at some point to a queen and nondescript buttercream walls. It was obvious Martha had been at work, rearranging and updating the space. Making it look more suitable for a grown pair of adults to share. Bruce felt a little bereft that she’d cleared away the action figures and had put out neat crystal dishes of potpourri with a framed family photo on the dresser instead. Even the lamps had been exchanged for newer more adult models.

                Not a Star Trek poster or planetary lamp shade in sight.  

                “Come here,” Clark said, tugging his hand towards the bathroom across the hall. Bruce didn’t argue. He didn’t pull away either.

                Floorboards creaked under their sock-damp feet. The house grumbled like the old woman she was. Clark undressed Bruce with cautious movements, long strokes and brushes of lips that were as endearing as they were building the fire in Bruce’s belly. By the time Clark got them both undressed and into the steaming dregs of the shower, Bruce was feeling languid and exhausted. Worn to the bone.

                Clark shampooed his hair, scraping blunt nails along his scalp and down his neck, making Bruce all but melt into him. Week-kneed. That’s what Bruce became when Clark kept up his focused ministrations and scrubbed Bruce from head to toe, even going so far as to kneel in the shower to work a wash cloth between Bruce’s toes.

                “You’re ridiculous,” Bruce mumbled when Clark helped him out of the shower and promptly began to towel him off. “I can do all of this myself.”

                “You can.”

                “Clark.” He blinked up, guileless and pure blue steadying on gray, and Bruce sucked in a breath. “You don’t need to do this.”

                “I know,” Clark’s voice was dark. Dark and slipping darker. “Let me do it though. I like to do it.”

                “But I—”

                Clark shook his head, finally leaning down for a kiss that felt long overdue and Bruce groaned embarrassingly into it. He forgot to hold his towel up and it fell with a wet plop onto the tile floor. Clark only seemed too pleased to take advantage and pressed Bruce into the door, lining every inch of his equally naked and shower heated skin against Bruce’s. The position felt so good, so needed, Bruce’s vision whited out. Like being caught in the blizzard that was hammering the farm, dazed and confused, he started murmuring nonsense words. Loving gibberish that was too soft for any other time but directly beneath Clark’s mouth and hot demanding hands.  

                “Here or the bed?”

                Bruce blinked, tried to make his mind clear enough to respond but only managed a hissed breath when Clark crushed their mouths back together and decided for them. The hunger was sharp. Too sharp. The emotions from before nothing like now, not even close to being as strong or as potent and Bruce swayed beneath them, terribly overwhelmed in the most exquisite way.

                “Clark,” Bruce hummed, grappled for something to hold onto, let Clark carry him across the hall and onto the bed. Let himself get spread out and claimed because he’d never wanted anything as much in his life. Clark made love like a man starved of human contact, with determination and aching care.

                With love.

                That was what it came down to. What it always came down to.

                They ended in the middle of the bed, all the sheets and the comforter torn off, sweaty and clinging. Desperation still hung as a heavy perfume in the air. And its counterpart despair. But Bruce could only feel the love humming in his veins, the pulse of it delicious in his mouth and crackling along his skin.

                He held onto it tightly, closed his eyes and reveled.

                Bruce came back to himself when Clark stood and started hunting up something to wear. Bruce didn’t move. Rather, he watched Clark with half-lidded eyes as the man dressed in briefs and a ratty Pink Floyd t-shirt. Clark moved like a symphony when he wasn’t pretending. He moved with grace and sinew—a constant balance of strength and the control of it as he did the mundane. It was breathtaking to witness.

                “You’re cold again,” Clark whispered, drawing back to the mattress to tug a t-shirt over Bruce’s head. Bruce smiled lazily at Clark, let himself be manhandled and dressed, then tucked into his side of the bed. Clark draped himself like a blanket over Bruce and sighed.

                Quiet reigned again. But it was a different sort of quiet now. Nothing like before where Bruce felt his loneliness so acutely, it was like a punishment. No, this quiet was earned and it was goose-feather soft. It was delicate and precious. And Bruce imagined it was because he was sharing it with someone. Sharing it with the man he loved above all else.

                “We could leave tomorrow. If that’s something you want.”

                “No,” Bruce pressed in tighter, “No, it’s fine.”

                “Alright.” No questioning Bruce’s judgement, no pushing. Just trust. “You warming up?”

                “Yes.”

                Clark was a man who liked to touch. More, he liked to trace lines and patterns into Bruce’s skin and to play with his hair. He tickled the little soft pieces at Bruce’s nape and steadily worked the pads of his fingers into the dark damp of it at Bruce’s crown with a fondness that didn’t need to be said aloud. Mostly because it was being broadcast loudly.

                Bruce could only hope his own enjoyment of those touches was being broadcast back, equally loud and clear.

                He hummed when Clark twisted pieces of his hair together in a way that felt like braiding and let his mind drift till he felt very close to sleeping. Clark must have known because he would hesitate every couple of minutes and Bruce knew Clark was listening.  

                “What time is it?”

                Clark kissed his hair, “Eleven forty-five.”

                “What time did your parents go to bed?”

                “About nine.”

                Bruce smiled, “I bet they wake up at five every morning too.”

                “They do. Ma was talking about getting up early to start in on Christmas breakfast, so she’ll probably be awake even earlier.”

                “Sadists.”

                “Farmers.”

                Bruce chuckled, lifting his chin when Clark started to trace the column of his throat for better access. “Twelve minutes and its Christmas.”

                “Yes.”

                “It will be our third together.”

                Clark was smiling. Bruce could hear it in his voice. “Actually, if we count the Christmases when we were just friends, then I’d say it will be our eighth together.”

                “That long?”

                Clark snorted, “Shocking, I know.”

                “I’m getting old.”

                “Old? Is that what they’re calling it these days,” Clark punctuated his disbelief with a questing hand that reminded Bruce he could and would respond whenever Clark wanted him too. As many times as Clark wanted him to. Bruce genuinely tried not to think of a future where that might not be the case. He might be thirty-five years young, but he wouldn’t stay that way. Age would catch up, years would slip by and Clark would—Clark would be left behind. Clark wouldn’t age with him.

                “Did I say something?”

                Bruce shook his head, “No. Just—thinking.”

                “Do I need to remind you that thinking is strictly forbidden this close to Christmas. In fact, it could be a crime worth punishing for.”

                “Could it?” Bruce rolled and Clark let him, “how would you see fit to punish me if I chose to disobey?”

                Clark’s expression wasn’t nearly as heated as it might have been at home, in the manor. Or it might have been when they were playing with each other in earnest. Now, it felt a little like a thin cover for burying the hard edge of disquiet Clark could sense in Bruce. Clark had always been good at dealing with Bruce’s moods. He’d always known when to push and when to withdraw.

                As it happened, he was very adept at reading a situation and acting accordingly.

                He dipped to Bruce’s mouth, kissed him soft and long, lingering with bites and nibbles that were just shy of enough. “Punishment can be for a different time.”

                “Can it?” Bruce murmured, feeling the sting of tears returning to his eyes with a vengeance, “I don’t know how you put up with this.”

                “With what?” Clark whispered, kissing Bruce’s cheeks, his forehead, his lips again, “Tell me what it is that you think I have to put up with.”

                “Me,” Bruce swallowed thickly, then pointed at his temple, “this.”

                “You’re brilliant. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

                “We both know that isn’t all I am. The bag of prescriptions in my suitcase is evidence enough.”

                “Just because you get lost sometimes, just because you drop the light when you do it, doesn’t mean you deserve to be chastised for it. Bruce—you are who you are. Don’t apologize for that. I love this person,” Clark smiled, the way he did when he was reminding Bruce of something he thought was obvious, “And I love your mind. All of it. Every aspect. Even the ones that frighten you.”

                “They don’t frighten you? The darkness—” Bruce licked his lips, “the shadows—they don’t frighten you?”

                “No.”

                 “Why?”

                Clark smoothed Bruce’s hair off his forehead and looked thoughtful for a moment. “The only thing I have ever been afraid of is losing you Bruce. That’s all. But I have never been afraid _of_ you.”

                “You deserve better.”

                “No,” Clark shook his head, “I deserve you. You are my well-deserved reward. The icing on the cake to my existence,” Bruce opened his mouth to argue and Clark silenced him with a finger, “It doesn’t have to make sense to you. Only to me. And my sweet darling, it’s never made more sense to be in love with you.”

                Bruce could feel the blush heating his cheeks in the dark and hoped Clark couldn’t see it. “Sweet darling?”

                Clark cocked his head, “Don’t like that?”

                “I just—it’s just—”

                “So, you do like it,” Clark murmured, kissing Bruce a little more fiercely, sucking on his bottom lip the way Bruce liked, “I promise not to tell anyone darling.”

                Bruce groaned, “Clark, I swear to God—”

                Clark chuckled, pressing Bruce more thoroughly into the mattress, then moved to suck a bruise into Bruce’s collarbones. Above the roar of blood in his ears and the sound of his own panting for breath, Bruce could hear the wind still whipping at the farm house. And he could hear when the grandfather clock down the hall started to chime.

                Clark stopped nibbling at Bruce’s belly button, his breath ghosting over damp skin and grinned widely up at Bruce. “Merry Christmas, darling.”

                Bruce smiled, felt the smile past the muscles in his face and the quick uptick of his heart when Clark called him that, then forced the words back. He’d never meant them more.

                “Merry Christmas Clark.”  


End file.
